


The Mating Habits of Sad Tossers, And How To Observe Them

by Attalander



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of British Idioms, Alliteration, Bad Puns, Crowley is a Snarky Perv, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, POV Third Person, Public Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, The Author Regrets Nothing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attalander/pseuds/Attalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Normally, Crowley would send a grunt to do surveillance work. He could do that now. He could've even done that then, when he was just King of the Crossroads instead of Grand High Poo-Bah of Damnation. Still, no matter how busy he got, there was always time for his little hobby...</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In which Crowley is a pervert who enjoys spying on the Winchesters, Castiel is bad for technology, and there is much snark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mating Habits of Sad Tossers, And How To Observe Them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Captain_Rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Rachel/gifts).



> Started by a conversation with Captain_Rachel, I banged this little piece of ridiculousness out in four hours. I make no claims about it being anything but ridiculous. Read at your own risk.
> 
> Also, minor spoilers about early Season 6, namely Crowley's background and position in hell at that point... though the events dont really seem to fit within that season's canon? I dunno, I just write this stuff.

Normally, Crowley would send a grunt to do surveillance work. He could do that now. He could've even done that _then_ , when he was just King of the Crossroads instead of Grand High Poo-Bah of Damnation. Still, no matter how busy he got, there was always time for his little hobby.

 

It had started when he was mortal, sneaking looks up other men's kilts, using his tailor's eye to… contemplate their claymore circumference, if you know what I mean. The dimensions of their dirks, the size of their swords, the elongation of their euphemisms… but there was only so long he could be satisfied with just peeping at other people's pert penises. Let's face it, when any stiff breeze could show him a selection of sturdy Scottish shlongs, it just wasn't enough of a challenge to keep at it. Especially when he'd come back as a demon and could literally summon the stiff breeze himself.

 

Still, it's not just the size that counts, right? It's also how you use it, and the new-commissioned Crowley simply _loved_ peeking in on the many, often ridiculous uses people put their pricks to. There was this one bloke… lets just say there's some things even a demon wouldn't think to do with a parsnip. Ever. God, that just looked _painful_. Still, it was usually good for a laugh, a stiffy, or both if he was lucky.

 

With the Winchester mob, he was almost always lucky. 

 

I mean, Sam alone was solid gold. Before this, Crowley had never seen anyone jerk off in such a completely _maudlin_ fashion. Seriously, it was always either angst or anger or awkwardness with Sam, even when he was with women. _Especially_ when he was with women. 

 

Crowley made a habit of popping into existence right outside Sam's window and snapping a shot on his camera phone at the moment Sam hit orgasm. Whenever he was having a bad day, he'd just take a look at his collage of Sam Winchester O-faces and burst into totally suave, contained laughter. And then run off to have a suave, contained wank.

 

Hey, angst-bucket or not, Sam had abs that put the "chest" in "Winchester". Rowr!

 

Tonight, though, Crowley bypassed the motel lavatory where Sam was noisily taking care of his business. He had bigger game. 

 

Well, not _bigger_ –hard to be bigger than the American Moose in there–but certainly more entertaining.

 

Following the finely honed senses of a demonic pervert, Crowley slipped invisibly towards the moaning, gasping mating call of his chosen prey, the rare _Deanus Winchestrus_ locked in a timeless dance with the just as rare _Angelus Pain-in-my-assamus._

 

_Oh, but what an assamus…_ Crowley thought, licking his lips. The angel's pure white arse was as bright as the moon overhead, glowing like a beacon even in the dim lights of the motel carpark. 

 

Why did the two of them always seem to pick the oddest places to get a leg over? He could get the whole "desperation of the moment" thing, but they were _outside_ a _motel!_ There were functional beds no less than ten feet away and Castiel was pinning his pet human against a fucking _wall._ Crowley could see the goose pimples running up Dean's legs as they wrapped around the angel's skinny waist, obviously too obsessed with masculine pride to mention that he was freezing his nuts off… and yet not too manly to beg and whimper and _scratch_ at Castiel's arms and back as he was pounded into the wall. A+ there, Dean… A+ and a gold star and a meeting after school with the teacher for private lessons because _damn!_

 

Because no matter how much he might mock them, watching these boys go at it was always more arousing than amusing. Even when Dean the badass hunter was pinned to an exterior wall with his arms and legs wrapped around a man who shouldn't _possibly_ have had the strength to hold him up… even then the incongruity couldn't seem to distract from the way his muscles rippled as he thrust himself down on the Angel's cock. The low rumble of Castiel's voice as he whispered into Dean's throat between hard nips and harder thrusts of his hips…

 

It was hard to remain smugly superior when…

 

It was just _hard_.

 

Cursing his resolution never to drop his drawers in the presence of an Angel, Crowley raised the camera phone, willing the image to focus so he could add it to his collection before–

 

Castiel came with a shout and a power surge, making the street lamps burst with a shower of sparks. People shouted angrily from the motel, Sam noisily fell out of the shower, and Crowley's phone quietly shorted out.

 

Angel mojo: 37, Crowley's phone integrity: 0

 

And really, _this_ was why Crowley didn't send minions. Because the damn angel seems to be practically doing this _on purpose_ , and even if he isn't… well, a few photographs or even a video couldn't give him the full picture. No amount of pixels captured by a minion could capture the way Dean moved, the way Castiel sounded, and the sheer smug satisfaction he got from sneaking up on them, even if he couldn't bring away any evidence for later blackmail.

 

Crowley slid the broken phone back into his pocket, and, with a snicker that had Dean looking wildly around, disappeared. Time to add one more to his collection of broken mechanical mementos. Because if a picture was worth a thousand words… a busted camera phone was worth a lot more mental images.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, my first piece of work in the Supernatural fandom. Please be gentle with me!


End file.
